


Deadman's Gun

by doomeddean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Fanfiction, Gen, Mark of Cain, demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomeddean/pseuds/doomeddean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the Supernatural season finale (9x23). </p><p>Dean wakes up to learn that he is a demon. Can he be saved from Mark of Cain or will its evil take hold and make Dean lose himself forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadman's Gun

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time ever writing fan fiction so please let me know what you think. I have a lot of ideas for this story and I promise to try and post as regularly as I can.

Dean Winchester feels himself falling deeper and deeper into darkness as if his entire being is folding in on itself. The world fades away slowly as his senses dim and his body loses control. In this moment Dean feels the grip of death like a noose around his neck tightening and choking the final breaths from his body. With each tug he feels as though pieces of himself are being chipped away as this chasm of darkness and despair threatens to swallow him whole.

How easy it would be to surrender and let the darkness descend. The sleepy tingles of it are already creeping through his bones and silencing his mind. 

Dean feels the pressure of his brothers hands gripping his arms tightly and then moving to his face cradling his broken cheeks and scarred flesh. Sam holds Dean to him, tears spilling from his eyes and landing on the back of Dean's shoulders. The sobs wrack Sam's body and Dean can feel him shaking and struggling to catch his breath. 

Dean's mind strains trying to tell his lips to form words, his arms to move, to do anything that would show his brother that he wasn't gone. But his mind is growing dimmer with each passing moment and his limbs seem to have disappeared all together as the chasm finally swallows Dean whole pulling him into the darkness completely. 

It is better this way.

A voice fills Deans head.

The words echo in his mind coaxing him to let go completely.

No more pain, or guilt, or shame. The voice continues.

All around is darkness and Dean knows he is dead. He feels nothing, not the air against his face, or the grip of his brothers hands, not even the pain from the wounds that had ripped his body in two.

Peace is coming now Dean Winchester. Rest now. No more tears, no more loss, no more life.

But it isn't complete. It isn't finished.

Is this death?

The weight of death crushes Deans lungs, it engulfs his mind and steals his soul but there is no peace. Instead all he feels is trapped unable to move, unable to breath, unable to call out as this crushing weight bears down on him but doesn't finish the job. His senses are dulled and his body is numb but not dead. 

Suddenly, a white hot fire engulfs his entire body and he screams out in pain as it rips through his lungs, peeling away his skin, tearing apart his organs and flaying his body whole. The familiar pain of knives carving into him like a stuck pig preparing him for a feast. His senses bounce back now and he opens his eyes. His voice is silenced by the terror of what is forming around him. The mangled souls of those who had come before him and who will be after surround Dean as his body is trapped against the rack. 

 Alastair stands a few feet away gazing at his instruments of torture with a twisted smile on his face. 

"Good to see you, Dean." He says menacingly turning his head to face Dean all the while smiling, "this is going to be so much fun." 

Dean stares at him in horror, it can't be. "You're dead" Dean attempts to speak sternly but his voice seems to have crawled down into his belly and it comes out merely as a hoarse whisper. 

"Hmm not quite." Alastair picks up a knife and dips it into a bath of holy water then turns and walks slowly but surely towards Dean. He holds the knife up to Dean's eye and Dean recognizes it as Ruby's.

Impossible.

"I believe this belongs to you. Don't worry. I'll give it back. After I peel all your skin off." 

Dean pulls against the restraints but they hold tight against his wrists and ankles, this isn’t real it couldn’t be. He closes his eyes trying to force his mind out of here back to the bunker and back to Sam. This is all a dream because Alastair is dead, that much is true. It is impossible for him to be here Dean had seen Sam crush the life out of that demon with his own two eyes. 

"Open your eyes Dean." Alastair's voice coaxes him almost soothingly but Dean refuses clamping his eyelids down harder almost to the point of pain. "Open them!" Alastair screams slamming his hand against Dean's forehead pushing his thumb against the eyelid forcing it open.

Alastair thrusts the blade into Dean's stomach with fury. Dean's flesh becomes alive again as Alastair begins to carve, it feels as though he is using a hot iron burning the very flesh from Dean's bones. The pain feels so real, so familiar and Dean realizes that this isn’t a dream. 

He is back in hell. With Alastair torturing him waiting for him to finally break but not this time. Dean Winchester would never break again. The cold edges of the blade slice against his torso and Dean screams out in pain as the fire engulfs him again and Alastair continues to carve until there is nothing left.

Dean slumps against the restraints that are holding his body up, his legs are slivers of bones, his torso shreds of skin and his face nothing but flayed flesh. The pain he had endured in hell previously was nothing compared to this torture and already Dean can feel his resolve slipping. 

Alastair wipes the blade off on his pant leg, smearing thick blood over the material. 

“See you tomorrow grasshopper.” Alastair says as he turns pushing the cart with the torture devices on them out of the darkened room. 

Dean feels his eyes burning and realizes tears were forming and threatening to spill out. 

Was it all worth it? He thought. He had taken the mark to kill Abbadon, told himself he could handle the power and handle the weight that inevitably the mark would bring but he never fully comprehended all the repercussions. 

All he saw was blood and death, his skin alighted with tingles just thinking about the way Abbadon screamed as he pushed the blade deeper and deeper destroying her very essence. Killing something, watching the life drain from someones eyes gave Dean more of a high and a greater escape than alcohol ever had and Dean knew it was pulling him down. 

From the moment that he had touched the blade, his fingers wrapping around its cool handle and that surge of power that came over him he knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t be stopped not even by his own hands. 

However, he never imagined this, landing back in hell was something he should have foreseen from taking on such a dark symbol but perhaps he didn’t want to think that this could happen. He had been over confident and cocky. Thinking he could go after Metatron alone was a stupid rookie mistake and Dean knew better.

Which was exactly why he had done it. That bloodlust pumping through his veins wasn’t even the thing compelling him to go into that room that he would surely not come out of alive. It was his need for escape, something the mark would provide him but Dean couldn’t bear to look in the mirror anymore. He couldn’t bear to think of what his mother or father would think or Sammy. 

No one was going to save him this time, not even Cas.

Cas, whose grace was like a cancer growing inside him killing him from the inside out. 

But Dean didn’t want to think about Cas or Sam or his parents all he wanted was to feel that blade in his hands again. Feel that power. Feel the blood rush out of someone and through his fingers knowing that he held the power and control. 

These thoughts were like poison. Invading Dean’s mind and swirling around in his thoughts, no matter what he did they would always creep back in. Dean cursed himself for letting them come now, tainting his mind once again. 

Dean let his head fall forward and a dribble of blood dropped out of his mouth between his busted and chapped lips onto the floor. He felt his eyes start to drop shut and the darkness began swirling around once again. Dean didn’t fight it this time, he would let it sooth his broken bones and torn skin knowing when he awoke he would be whole again and it would start all over. 

The darkness crept closer, crawling across the floor a smoke like entity working its way towards Dean. As it grew closer Dean could hear whispering coming from it. The same voice that had been speaking to him earlier.

“What you’re feeling is not death.” The smoke whispered to him. “It’s life. A new kind of life.” The smoke wrapped around Dean’s leg and he saw the skin grow back into place. “Open your eyes Dean.” The voice continued as the smoke worked its way up Dean’s body sewing it back together. “See what I see. Feel what I feel.” The smoke slithered around Dean’s arm. “Let’s go take a howl at that moon.” The smoke crawled up across Dean’s throat healing the final slash and seemed to stop and look at him. Dean felt it’s call, stronger then anything he had ever felt in his life and the longer he stared at it the more he saw himself in it. 

Then all at once the smoke entered Dean’s body, filling up every corner of him, intertwining with Dean’s very soul. He felt like he was being squeezed by an anaconda, as though the smoke was trying to imbed itself within Dean, becoming a part of him. Becoming all of him. 

Dean couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think or move as this smoke clung to him and squeezed the life out of him or into him.

All at once, his body came to life, fire shot through his veins, his muscles coiled, and his senses sharpened with a quick flick his eyes spring open.

 

~~~

Sam Winchester sits at the end of the bed. His brothers body lays still and lifeless with his arms placed carefully at his side. Sam holds the bloody rag in his hands which he used to wipe the blood off of Dean’s face and clean him up as best as he could. It still doesn’t look like Dean though. Cuts that will never heal cover his forehead and pale skin stretches over his face. The look of death hovers around his brothers body and Sam can barely look at him without crying. 

His eyes burn and are red from so many tears and Sam doesn’t know if he even has any left to give. 

“Dammit.” Sam leans forwards and brushes his hands through his hair. “Dean...” Sam doesn’t know what he wants to say or why he is even bothering to talk but he can’t stop. 

“Please, just open your eyes.” Sam pleads. He can’t be dead. He can’t be. Sam knows that Dean can’t hear him but he continues talking anyways, “I wish we could go back, you know? Back to when it was all simple.” Sam picks at his nail breaking the cubicle. “Back when it was just wendigos and ghosts. None of this Knight of Hell crap.” Sam feels water beginning to collect in the corner of his eyes again, it burns as it spills down over his cheek. “Back before you or me went to hell. Just back when we were...brothers.” Sam wipes the tears that are pouring down his face. “I fucked up a lot of shit, Dean, and I’m sorry.” Sam stared at the corpse of his brother almost waiting for a response but knowing none would come. “You were a great brother. You always protected me. Always took care of me. You’re the best man I’ve ever known. I just wish you had seen that in yourself.” Sam stands up from the bed and moves to the door taking one last look. “I love you, brother, and I’m going to fix this.” 

Sam closes the door and walks out to the kitchen pulling the half full bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. He realizes that the last person to drink this was Dean. Sam wonders what was going through Dean’s head as he drank it. Fear, sadness, anger? 

Sam sits down at the work table and begins drinking straight from the bottle not bothering to poor it into a glass. 

The bottle provides little comfort to the fact that his brothers corpse is sitting in the next room slowly decaying. 

His brothers corpse.

Sam swallows another mouthful of whiskey and enjoys the burning sensation as it works its way down his throat. 

With each gulp his sadness dissipates as his emotions become numb due to the alcohol flowing through his system. 

The loud buzz of his cellphone on the table shocks Sam out of his stupor and he drops the bottle of whiskey onto the ground. 

“Fuck!” Sam yelled and grabbed the phone irritatingly. “Yeah?” 

“Sam?” The familiar gravelly voice spoke on the other end of the phone. 

“Cas...” 

“Is-is it true?” Cas’s own voice sounds as though he is struggling to keep his emotions in check but angels don’t have emotions.

“Yeah...” Sam’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

“I sent one of the angels to look for his soul in the veil.” Castiel says. 

“Thank you.” 

“No...Sam....they couldn’t find it.” Cas’s voice breaks and Sam feels like his world is being crushed all over again. 

“If Dean isn’t in the veil then where is he?” Sam already knows the answer to his own question but he is hoping against all hope that Cas will have a better one.

“You know Sam.” 

“I don’t want to believe it.” A seed of anger drops into Sam’s stomach and with each word it begins growing larger and larger into a rage. 

“Sam...I don’t have the strength to...my grace...I can’t get him. I’m sorry.” 

“Not your fault Cas. Its Crowley. He got Dean into this and he is going to pay.” Sam knew exactly what he was going to do now. Something that should have been done ages ago. 

“Sam. What are you going to do?” 

“Crowley can bring him back.”

“What is wrong with you Winchesters? Have you learned nothing!” 

“I’m not going to sell my soul Cas! I’m going to get him to bring Dean back another way.” 

“How are you going to do that?” Cas sounded skeptical of Sam’s words and truth be told Sam didn’t even know exactly what he was going to do. All he knew was that Dean’s death was completely and utterly Crowley’s fault. Without his influence Dean would never have taken the mark, would never have spiraled out of control, and would not have gone after Metatron alone.

“Crowley is a snake Sam. Whatever you have in mind he’ll figure a way out of it.” 

“I got this Cas.” 

“At lease wait for me to get there!” 

“Fine.” 

Sam hangs up the phone not bothering to say goodbye and gets up from the chair swaying slightly as he walks back to the dungeon. It smells of old spices and strange herbs from Dean’s own summoning spell only hours earlier. Sam gathers the necessary items and drops them into the bowl and with one swipe the matches light on fire and Sam drops them into the bowl. A large burst of flame erupts from the bowl and Sam waits patiently for Crowley to appear. He sits on the ground, checking that the devils trap is in tact, wipes clean Ruby’s knife, and double checks that he did the spell right but Crowley still doesn’t appear. 

“Fuck you!” Sam screams, “Show up you coward!” Sam turns and punches the wall, cracking all his knuckles and busting a few open leaving blood prints against the the paint. 

“You can’t do this.” He whispers to himself, “You can’t do this.” 

~~~

Everything is to sharp and crisp. The light is excruciatingly bright and it makes his head swim, a dust particle floats in front of Dean’s face and his eyes focus in on it for a second measuring the exact size and comparing it quickly to the next one floating beside it. His eyes spring from that to the bed below him, his left hand gathers the fabric and he feels the soft loops of each shred of thread. The way they interlock and swirl together to make a knot that eventually becomes a blanket. He can feel every curve and stitch beneath his fingers and his hand runs endlessly over the fabric taking in this new sensation.  
 His right arm feels heavy though, it grips something tight holding it protectively to his chest. His fingers clasped tightly of their own accord refusing to loosen their grip. Dean looks down to his chest and sees the first blade resting there and it is as though just by noticing it he feels the pull become stronger. A small burning sensation begins at the location of the mark and works its way up Dean’s arm growing in strength. 

The burn grows hotter and stronger with each moment that Dean’s hand grips the blade. 

Kill. The voice whispers in his head. You need it. The voice slithers around hissing inside the depths of Deans mind like a snake. 

“Dean?” A familiar voice questions pulling Dean’s attention away from the snake that is still slithering around in his mind. “How do you feel?” 

Dean turns his head and sits up with a shot when he sees Crowley, but it is more then just the meat suit. He sees his true face, twisting red smoke filling out every recess of that body. Something so demented and twisted it is impossible to imagine that it was once a pure human soul. Crowley has a hundred faces and each one wears a different mask, Dean can barely make out the form of one before it disappears and the smoke turns into something else. 

“I-I can see your face.” Dean says, his voice somehow calm and steady despite the fact that he feels like his insides have turned to slop and just then Dean Winchester realizes that he hasn’t taken a breath from the moment he opened his eyes.

Dean inhales deeply but it is like the oxygen has no purpose inside his body. It gets sucked in through his nostrils and swirls around within his lungs, expanding them and filling them as necessary but no relief comes from the action instead only emptiness. Dean exhales the breath and fills the rush of air leave his body just as impassively as it entered.  
 All the while, Crowley watches Dean. Keeping a relaxed posture against the wall. 

“Dean?” Crowley speaks again.

Dean feels his mind folding in within himself as the realization of what he is begins unveiling itself. Dean blinks rapidly feeling like his eyes are coated with dirt or grime but the more he blinks the worse it gets. He looks at Crowley through heavy lids, knowing that in this moment he should feel sadness or shame. Anything but the nothingness that has dropped into the pit of his useless stomach like a brick. The only feeling that stays constant is the pull of the blade in his right hand and the voice still slinking around in his head.

Kill. It whispers again. 

“What am I?” Dean chokes out. 

“Dean...I’m sorry...I didn’t know-” Crowley began but just then the dull fire aching in Dean’s arm came to life with the white hot rage of a hundred suns hurling his body forward before he could stop himself. 

He slammed Crowley’s body up against the wall and held the blade to his throat. 

“Dean. Please. You need me.” Crowley bargained. 

“Always trying to weasel your way out.” Dean hisses, his voice sounding different even to himself. 

Do it. The voice whispers. 

“Dean, I’m trying to help you.” Crowley choked out against the crushing weight of Dean’s arm against his windpipe. 

“What am I?” Dean growls. 

“Look in the mirror.” Crowley nods towards the small mirror hanging on the wall. 

Dean holds him there a few more seconds the blade still pushing him to bury it deep within Crowley’s sternum. That voice whispering. Kill him. But Dean manages to let go stepping quickly away from Crowley and dropping his right arm to the side but still gripping the blade with white knuckles.

He cautiously turns and looks at himself in the mirror only to be greeted by two picth black eyes as dark as Crowley’s soul.


End file.
